Subjective
by xooxu
Summary: Short pointless ramblings about where Conrad ended up. Slight mention of ConWorth, probably a oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

Well jeez. I'm just a flurry of activity today.

It's ramblish, and quite pointless. Something I wrote on a whim. Enjoy ... or not. Whatever floats your boat.

**Subjective**

* * *

Vague little memories of faux fur and cigarette smoke plague his dreams. He wishes he could remember so it might all be a little less frustrating. He wishes he could forget so he could just move on.

It's not like it matters anymore. Nothing really matters anymore. Time and ability have brought him means. Age has brought him indifference. He can barely even imagine his age, and even if he could, it's only a number. It means very little to anyone, least of all himself.

A bit of him breaks as an image runs through his head, here then gone, of a man he once knew and a person he once was in a place that is no more. Hadn't been for millennia.

(God, he knows something is fucked up if that sentence is true.)

But still, the thought is endearing, and it was a better time, so instead of chasing his ghosts away, he catches them.

Worth. Luce. Cockney or Australian, he never did find out. The image is pressed with a cigarette in his mouth and fake fur around his neck, and a scowl on his face. The nuances don't matter anymore, because nobody but him would understand. The same way he gets weird stares when he says "God" in public. They don't make sense. The fact that he's rude is subjective. The stubble on his face no longer means that he's unkempt. The word "doctor" doesn't exist as a title, so it doesn't matter what you say instead of Luce. The fur isn't tacky because there isn't even such a thing as real anymore.

When the fuck did humanity go to hell? Probably about the time Lucy died. All down the motherfucking hill from there.

His ghosts aren't _all_ about Luce (just mainly), and the others are there too. A redhead (which is another nuance that doesn't matter anymore, since that term makes about as much sense as calling the sky blue, 'cause it's fucking _not_ anymore) who liked to smile. Hanna. Cross, maybe? All of him was subjective. Weird. Bold. Poor. Young for his age. Expressive and hot-tempered.

If he'd handed that list to someone now, their imagination's end product would most certainly not be Hanna.

There was a zombie, too, and a werewolf, and other people, but they all make up the background. Like extras for a movie (which doesn't mean anything) or white noise (which would just confuse people). They didn't matter. They didn't matter. They didn't fucking matter and they never would, and dear God, he knew what happened to people when they died.

They didn't matter.

Nobody mattered after they died. Even George Washington, or William Shakespeare, or Muhammad or Jesus or Abraham, or Socrates. Their importance all had their expiration dates. George's was when America fell. Bill's was the death of English. The rest was when morality went down the drain.

(He thinks that not dying doesn't help either.)

He'd like to think that they're doing better than he is. Heaven or afterlife or the next stage. Whatever the fuck you'd call it. But then he knows that all of that is wishful thinking. What people are able to figure out is amazing when humanity is given a few thousand years to ponder the question. He's the only one with a presence from that time, and he knows it. Fuck science. He'd rather have not known.

Another thing that is completely subjective? Him. No panic would arise if he told the next person he saw he was a vampire. The word not only means nothing, but there is no word for what he is. The closest might be _kevi'ai_. Deadly immortal. But that barely describes him. He had watched with humor as story turned to rumor turned to whisper turned to memory turned to nothing. He'd been expecting something from Daybreakers (subjective) or something there for a while.

He hadn't seen another vampire for about eight hundred years. He thinks he might be one of the last. How he'd managed that is still something for the Gods to ponder. Especially given who he used to be.

He misses art. He misses a lot of stuff. He misses Worth.

His last memory of him is awful. It consists of hatred and unforgiveness and a hollowness of a man. (Subjective.)

He sometimes wonders how the doctor died.

* * *

[Meant to be WAY WAY WAY in the future, if you didn't catch that.]


	2. Chapter 2

I felt like a lot needed to be expanded one, so consider it a two-shot.

Um, social commentary abound?

* * *

The memories are dusty, but he's already given them a good stir, so he picks them up, one by one, and gives them a shake.

The city, his apartment, that little café down on sixth, the alley – places start giving him a setting. Nothing remained of it. That was the problem with the virtual world. When the system crashed, it was like a reset.

Then the faces. Face. _That_ face. Of course they had been friends. Good friends. But slowly age tore them apart. He couldn't stand to look at the graying whiskers or the aging skin or hear the wheezing coughs made worse by habit. Slowly they drifted. Slowly they lost each other.

Their last night together was a fight. If he had to pick one regret to be his worst, it would be that hour. Worth was only fifty, but cigarettes drugs desires kept killing him faster. It was confrontation. It was denial. It was rebuttal and hatred and anger, and it was storming out and deciding that if Worth was going to kill himself he would have no part in it.

It was deciding to not care.

He'd like to think that he made it this far because of indifference. He left and just kept moving. A year later, he wondered. Fives later, he wondered, ten years, fifty, one hundred. But then it was too late. So he kept moving. Eventually it became even too late to wonder.

At first, he kept drawing. Those were great times. He could always find some hospital (or whatever the word was at the time) with a slightly lack security system, and the rest was easily covered by art. He didn't have to worry. Of course the world was changing, but he started seeing the patterns, predicting them, seeing when he would need to move or when it would be safest to stay.

The world didn't end with an alien invasion or because of the environment (although, not for a lack of trying, just people kept pushing through that). It ended with a push of a button.

Some of the vampires that he met during the next millennium made him look like an infant. They told him that it would repeat: good times were ahead for an immortal, and slowly it'd build back, just like it had before. But they were wrong. It just kept spiraling down. But his adventures with Worth had told him not to get attached to anything with an expiration date. He wasn't cold-hearted, he was just apathetic.

The world built it self back up, smothering the remains that had crumbled down below. It wasn't better. It was just different. Parallel and incomparable. Art didn't exist, no one knew their history, society had its standards, and if you could call it politics, it would make communism look great, and democracy look like hell.

But he didn't really concern himself. As long as there was something to keep him going (most of the time there was) and a niche in the world for him to fill, he kept going. No one ever remembered what he was if they knew – he'd mastered that whole glamor thing where there were still keyboards.

The only thing that really, truly remained from his time was his rule. The rule. The rule that he made for himself long ago when he was called a pussy for it. Now it makes him … less. Less monstrous. Less vile. Less apathetic.

And he's sort of okay with that.

* * *

Do I drabble, or what?


End file.
